Breaking The Patterns
by Cella N
Summary: Bookmen can’t love. But they probably will. MIRANDA. RABI. On impossibilities becoming possible.


**Spoilers:** None, really. Nothing tangible.  
**A/N:** The lyrics at the beginning are from Katie Mellua's song 'Piece By Piece'. Because I always thought that was a bit of a Miranda-ish song.  
As for the story, it's meant to be more poetic than anything. Let's just hope you people like it. The POVs change alternating like so: R, M, R, M, R. Just in case you get lost along the way.

* * *

**Breaking The Patterns**  
_+(I'll shed like skin,  
Our memories of lazy days,  
And fade away the shadow of your face)+  
Katie Mellua, "Piece By Piece"_

* * *

Bookmen can't love. Bookmen can't love. Bookmen can't love. 

You tell yourself this every other night, when you meet her on the deck of the ship, insomniac and frail, but still hanging on. Bookmen can't afford emotions, you're told. And yet you feel. You feel admiration towards Yuu, deep friendship towards Rinali and Allen. And, yeah, friendship is like love, in a way. Or love is like friendship. Only love is more dangerous, and this one is even more. You're doomed from the start.

To begin, the age difference. She's older than you. But beautiful, so beautiful, in that way that artists want to paint her just to capture the saddened expression, the curve of her lips, the tilt of her nose, her passion, her light, her calmness and her mystery. Yes age doesn't matter, because you're going to grow old like Panda-chan, and lonely, and so will she, old and beautiful, and lonely: so why not be lonely together. How to begin? _Hello, Miranda, I'm sorry I yelled at you, and I'm sorry I made you cry, may I kiss you please?_ It will never work.

Then, there are the times you live in. War, and destruction, and danger. And you're rash, she's not, who knows when you'll die, who knows if she will—gods, you hope not, please not—so you can't even dream about it. Only you do dream about it, sometimes, and you know, deep down, there will come a point when war will be over. She's alive, and you're alive. _Hello, Miranda, I'm glad to see you're still as wonderful as always, can we grow old and happy together now?_

And last, you're a Bookman. You will be. You're not ready, or maybe you are, who knows. You hate having to push emotions down. Books smell nice, but she smells better. Paper feels nice, but she'll feel better, you think, all soft and smooth and warm, and—stop it, Rabi. Organizing, yeah, that's what you know how to do. Organizing. You can organize a library in the span of ten minutes, but you can't organize your feelings to go there, on the deck, and ask Miranda for some simple thing, like how are you tonight, need coffee, can I kiss you, please?

Bookmen can't love.

She comes to you first, then, catches you on the desk, and apologizes for having screamed at you. And you laugh it up, because it's ridiculous, and apologize in turn, and hold her hand, but don't ask her for a kiss, and like how she blushes, and promise to take care of her, and there's that.

Bookmen can't love. But they probably will.

---------

Why would he? Why would you? Why not?

The first time you speak, really speak, to him, it takes a full half an hour to gather up guts. Ridiculous, you know, after all, you're older than him. You're a woman, he's still a boy. And yet, you feel like a teenager around him. Why? Why? Why, you ask yourself? Because I missed out on childhood? Missed out on crushes? Missed out on a lot of things? Why start with him?

Well, when you first saw him, you saw fire in his eyes. Passion, red hot, and so very much there. And then you heard the old man tell him, order him, not to feel. You wanted to scream. How can you make such a person not feel? When he's so fiery, when he moves on emotions? How could you tell him not to love, when he's the face of love itself. Maybe a bit exaggerated, you thought, but either way. No feelings. Hm, you always pick the difficult things, and you always fail. This is doomed from the start.

So when you approach him on deck, enumerating things against in your head: you're old, you're ugly, you're clumsy, it's war, it's stupid, it can never be; you feel like a teenage girl all over. He takes your hand, and you blush, because boy-touching-hand has not happened to you before. It's strange, it's wonderful, and you want to ask. _Can I kiss you, Rabi?_

Why would he say yes? Why would you ask? Why not want it?

You are quiet. The night passes. The following night, you're back to the same square. And you want to ask, can I kiss you Rabi? Can I, old little clumsy ugly horrible woman, kiss you? Would it be your first kiss? It would be my first kiss. I want my first kiss to be yours, like fire and passion and love and everything. I want to feel your fingertips against my cheeks. _I want to kiss you._

You don't realise you say that last line until later, when he's kissing you, and you're melting under the heat.

---------

"This is wrong."

It isn't. Even if you're hiding in the house of an ally, even if there are Akuma roaming the lands, even if she's injured at the hip. It's not wrong. She's young under your hands, young and innocent, and you take her, like an empty page, and spill ink, taint her, break her, write her story. You love writing stories for her. There was once Miranda, a beautiful woman who had the misfortune of meeting a stupid boy. She laughs at your stories, and tells you she's fortunate to have met you, and when she smiles like that, you damn to hell all your duties as a Bookman, and go: _May I kiss you, Miranda?_

"This feels so right."

You stop asking if you can kiss her, and just kiss her. When she blinks like she's lost, when she's safe from the Akuma, when you're alone. Then, because it's war, because it's love, probably, too, she lets you. And you take off her uniform, and she takes off yours, and you're clumsy, and new to this, and you both laugh a bit, at the beginning. Her skin feels better than books, and you never want to touch books again. Just her, just her. Her breath feels hot against your skin, and your name on her lips, it taints this whole thing, it spills ink all over you, or maybe it's you spilling ink over her, who knows.

"Don't leave."

Panda-chan will have your ass in the morning. You'd rather Miranda had it, since her hands are nicer, and gods, you're already in love with her. Doomed from the start. Don't particularly want to change that.

---------

"Leaving tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Please don't get killed, okay?"

"You neither, Miranda."

"I think I love you. Is that…is that a wrong thing for me to do?"

"I think I love you back. So, we're sinning together."

"If I die—"

"You won't."

"Rabi."

"Mm?"

"When the war is over, we'll go back to being taboo. An old woman corrupting a child."

"You're far from old, my beautiful Miranda. And I'm far from a child, no matter how childish. And you know what? Screw taboo. And screw Bookman tradition too. I doubt the world will end if one dares to feel. And I'll be damned if I'm not allowed to feel for you."

"I don't think I love you anymore. I know I do."

"Yeah. So do I."

---------

The war is over. You both survived.

She's going to grow old, and lonely. You're going to grow old, and lonely too.

"Hey, Miranda, let's grow old and happy together."

"I'd like that."

**+(end)+**


End file.
